Blood-Stained Banner
by SGCbearcub
Summary: Wave Wave the bloody flag of war


Title - "Blood-stained Banner"  
Author - Wintersong  
E-Mail address - wintersong .ca

Rating - R  
Category - SA  
Spoilers - DeadAlive  
Keywords - none

PURity Category: Minor Characters

Summary - Wave, wave, the bloody shirt high.  
This time we go to war.

Disclaimer: They belong to CC and 1013.

Note: This story was written for the PURity  
Summer Season Challenge. It takes place between  
TINH and DeadAlive.

***********************************************

Shit.

That was the first word that came to mind. God  
damn and Fuck it all to hell followed close  
behind.

Banging his head repeatedly against his desktop,  
Alex Krycek considered the fact that there was a  
reason the fucking Roman Empire had waved the  
bloody fucking shirt of a defeated general before  
the masses.

It damn well worked.

Come on Alex, he told himself. Think. Think damn  
it. And while you're at it...he considered the  
wooden surface only centimeters from his pain-  
blurred gaze. Find yourself some aspirin.

Or vodka. Yeah. Vodka might do it. Tradition was  
a wonderful thing.

Too bad he didn't drink.

Mulder had finally managed to get himself killed.  
And not conveniently either. Mulder, being  
typically Mulder, had decided to fuck Alex Krycek  
but good. He couldn't have died in some messy but  
scientifically explainable way. Nope. Monster Boy  
had to get fragged in a very public, very  
noticeable manner. So noticeable that his  
tragically abandoned, tragically PREGNANT partner  
got her tragic ass broadcast on national  
television as she publicly collapsed over his  
mutilated corpse.

Wave,wave the bloody flag of war...

Re-broadcasting every hour on the hour in 52  
states - oh , and don't forget fucking Canada.  
Damn FOX satellite feeds. And how the hell was he  
supposed to know that the news editor for the BBC  
was a bona fide UFO nut who subscribed to The  
Lone Gunmen? Less than 1500 subscribers-how  
serious a threat were they supposed to be?

Except now they were 1500 pissed off subscribers.  
Just when did Agent Spooky and Doc Ice become the  
poster children for the paranoid pocket protector  
set anyway? And now they were all mad enough to  
get off the damn nail and do something about it.

Shit.

Pregnant women and the sympathy factor. He had  
seriously underestimated the sympathy factor.

He just wished that he'd underestimated Scully.

If Mulder had just become the official martyr of  
the god damn Church of X, Strange and Truth,  
then Scully had managed to become Mother Mary,  
Moses on the Mount and the fucking Archangel  
Gabriel and his fucking flaming sword all in one.  
Skinner now rode his white horse with all the  
guilty fervor of the newly converted while the  
three choirboys from Hell continued their hymns  
of doom, gloom, and alien invasion.

Scully was doing exactly what he'd figured she'd  
do.

She was calling in the dogs of war.

It was, he thought morosely, sort of like the  
homosexual telling the hetero that it was okay to  
be gay. No bloody credibility. Mulder could spout  
his scripture to the people and the congregation  
would nod their heads gamely, give rousing cheers  
of support and maybe throw a little money in the  
collection plate. But that's as far as it would  
go. Because in the end, Mulder was one of them  
and he was preaching to the converted.

But Scully belonged to the masses.

She was the sane one. The scientific one. The  
unbeliever. The one who was causing lab techs and  
local PD to laugh at her crackpot theories first,  
then, after meeting a very focused, very tortured  
and very sane blue-eyed gaze, pause and ask  
"really?". Lab techs and flatfoots who were  
going home with the eerie feeling that maybe...  
just maybe...what if she was right? And how could  
any red-blooded American male still call himself  
a man if he wussed out over a little humiliation  
and embarrassment in the face of such obvious  
and overwhelming feminine courage and pain?

Guilt with a testosterone chaser was a damned  
inconvenient thing.

Belief was bloody contagious too. Like the case  
in Jersey. Six homeless men ripped apart by  
something the only survivor said was a werewolf.  
Not so unusual. He was 24 ounces into a 40 ounce  
bottle of whiskey when he saw it. Just another  
crazy loose on the streets. The PD even agreed.

And then requisitioned 1000 rounds of silver  
plated bullets.

The fucking werewolf never had a chance.

All because of the sympathy factor.

Damn it. It was socially acceptable for men to  
suffer for unrequited love. For lost love. For  
the unattainable goal. Hell, it was a Hollywood  
cliché. Boy meets girl, bad guy does something  
terrible to girl, boy becomes the tragic hero  
with nothing left to lose.

So much for the girl.

Reduced to the currency of a game. The quality of  
her pain, the extent of her losses used as  
nothing more than the benchmark to gauge a man's  
standing among his fellow players. Was she raped?  
Dear me, you should have moved faster. Was she  
killed? Ah ha! Now we've got some psychological  
drama. Will you allow us to use it to manipulate  
you or will you rise above our petty machinations  
and prove yourself the better man? And if she  
lives? Well, hell man...you win.

The fools actually bought this shit.

Morons.

Only now there was Scully.

The hell with potentially turning Mulder into the  
icon of a crusade. They should have been worried  
about his partner. He'd told them. He'd told them  
it was a mistake. Hell, he'd known since the  
minute she'd stuck that pain-in-the-ass nose in  
the air and snubbed him in the autopsy bay. She  
was supposed to be glad to get away from her  
fruitloop partner. Grateful even. Not  
territorial. But there she was, hiking her leg  
and squatting with the best of them.

When the hell had it all gone to hell? The first  
case? The third? For someone who claimed the  
motto "Trust No One", the man had a powerful  
drive for wanting to trust the women in his life.  
Brains definitely did it for him. Phobe,  
Diana - they might as well have taken Scully out  
and gift-wrapped her. They had, he thought  
finally, gotten too impressed with themselves.  
They'd wanted the flexibility to hit every red  
blooded spinal reflex hot-button the man had.

And it had just turned around and kicked them  
in the ass.

Now he had to figure out a way to keep her  
alive until he could figure out what to do  
about Mulder. A little more time and maybe  
they would have an effective vaccine. Just  
a bit more time.

Mulder was safe enough where he was for the  
moment. His antibodies should be able to  
hold off this new virus a few weeks longer.  
Long enough for Alex to do what had to be  
done about the child.

But maybe he should spare a minute to worry  
about himself. Because he didn't have a clue  
who the fucking Saracens were anymore. Because  
Scully was riding the clarion call to battle  
and her army was gathering. Too soon. Damn it.  
Too fucking soon.

And the last time the Christians went to  
war...

...they lost.

**************************  
~the end

Author Notes: Just wanted to confess  
that I ...umm...*borrowed* (stealing is  
such a harsh word;o) Alex's observation  
about the Roman reason for waving the bloody  
shirt from David Weber's "Honor Harrington "  
series. 


End file.
